


Blessed dawn

by Der_Spatz



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Sex, Bard is a DILF, Bofur is hung, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Lots of mushiness, M/M, No angst here, Oral Sex, Pining, Size Difference, Size queen Bard, Strength Kink, but just when it suits the author, but not for long, i guess not xd, is relationship without plot a tag?, they are so ridiculous and cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25917361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Der_Spatz/pseuds/Der_Spatz
Summary: It seems Bard finally succumbed to sleep somewhere just before dawn, and the dragon still hadn’t come. They are alive. For now. And there is a dwarf making breakfast and humming to himself in their kitchen.Or:Five times they woke up to each other and one time they didn't.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Bofur, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 34
Kudos: 106





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, many many thanks to Incogneet0 (@theresonlyzuul/@geetimesthree on tumblr) for the beta, you're a real life saver. And also go check her art out, she has been drawing the cutest, most beautiful bardfur art and it's amazing <3
> 
> So here I am, finally! For those of you who are new to the ship, you must read objectlesson's gay metal au because she has singlehandedly made a buch of people obsessed with this pairing, including me. This story wouldn't exist without her.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, everyone :) Let me know what you think.

Bard wakes up to humming. It’s not an unusual thing in itself, Sigrid is very prone to hum or whistle while doing tasks around the house and Tilda started mimicking her even when she hadn’t yet learned to speak (which was adorable beyond words). So, it’s not the humming that’s strange. It’s the voice, musical and expressive, very nice to listen to, but distinctly male.

Still groggy, Bard blinks against the morning light (so much light, why is there…?) and it’s then when he notices that he’s been sleeping in a heap of pillows in the middle of the living room (which is also the kitchen and the dining room), and that the weight he feels on his stomach is Tilda’s head.

He groans and twists his head, still pretty out of it (he has never been a morning person, the kids tease him endlessly about it). His back and neck both hurt something fierce, reminding him enthusiastically that he’s well past the age where sleeping on the floor was a good idea at all. He finally succeeds in keeping his eyes mostly open and then he sees the dwarf cheerfully milling about in his kitchen, humming an unknown and exotic sounding melody while he stirs what smells like bacon and sausages on a pan.

Ah. Now Bard (thankfully more awake now) remembers the day before. The dwarves’ goodbye committee (which he resolutely did _not_ attend, despite the kids begging to go). Tilda pouting all morning in revenge. The funky looking dwarf with the pigtails and the hat knocking on his door, all dejected and miserable, forcing a cheerful smile so obviously that Bard just hadn’t been able to throw him out like he had intended in the first place. He had never been one to kick puppies.

Then the initial awkwardness of them all looking at each other, broken by Tilda’s very loud “Is he bald under that hat, Da?”. And _then_ , instead of laughing or brushing her off and before Bard could scold his youngest, the dwarf was nodding and explaining in all seriousness how a curse had made it so if he took the hat off before sundown, he would stay bald forever. And then, surprise, Bard had discovered that his kids and the dwarf got on like a house on fire and it all had flowed down from there.

And when the ground started shaking and the mountain loomed threateningly in the distance, Bard and Bofur (because who was Bard kidding, he had learned his name pretty much immediately) had exchanged a _look_ for half a second while Tilda whimpered in fear and Bain and Sigrid tried to pretend they were not scared. 

The next instant, Bofur had thrown some pillows on the floor and declared the start of a storytelling session which had included suspense, romance, action, ancient dwarven ballads and some absurd songs Bard strongly suspected Bofur was making up on the spot. Soon enough, the fear was forgotten and the kids laughed and gasped with delight with every new story. And if Bard tightened his grip on the black arrow he had hidden under a pillow and Bofur’s gaze met his with unspoken gravity every time a faint tremor reached them, they were none the wiser.

The kids dropped off to sleep one by one, but the two of them stayed awake most of the night, talking in hushed tones about what to do if the dragon came, and later about less dark matters, like Bofur’s brother and cousin (who he was so blatantly worried about despite his crippling disappointment at being left behind), their unbelievably accidented trip from the West, the intricate toys he used to make back in the Blue Mountains ( _Aye, your bairns would love them, me cousin and I once made an eagle that could actually fly_ ). 

And the thing is… the moment Bofur had stepped into his house that morning, Bard had resigned himself to entertain an unwelcome guest for the Valar knew how long. But the second Tilda started giggling at the dwarf’s jokes, he saw so clearly Bofur’s eyes light up, and with every new story and song, his kids smiled more and more and that light shone brighter and brighter and… before he knew it, Bard had become part of his captive audience.

So they talked and talked about nothing and everything for hours, and at one point Bard realized with a start that he had absolutely forgotten about the dragon, so immersed was he in their conversation. That he was not _enduring_ this stranger’s company at all. He was enjoying it like he hadn’t enjoyed anything in a long, long time. 

It seems Bard finally succumbed to sleep somewhere just before dawn, and the dragon still hadn’t come. They are alive. For now. And there is a dwarf making breakfast and humming to himself in their kitchen.

Bard takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, giving himself a few more seconds to stare at the ceiling and formulate a plan of action.

“Alright,” he finally mutters, and he carefully extricates himself from under Tilda, leaving her curled up against her brother, who is currently drooling on one of the pillows. Sigrid is nowhere to be seen, probably upstairs in her actual bed, like a sensible person.

Bard has tried to be quiet, but Bofur must have heard him anyways, because he stops humming and turns around with his trademark toothy smile already in place. 

“Well, hello! Would you look at that? We’re alive!”

Bard blinks.

“Yes, I suppose we are. Are… are you making breakfast?,” he asks, way more dryly than he intended.

“Oh, yes! Yer eldest told me t’help meself. She’s up having a bit of a kip, said she didn’t sleep much,” Bofur announces cheerfully. Then he seems to consider Bard’s tone for a second and his brow furrows. “Should I not have? Shit, m’sorry if…”

“Oh, no, not at all. It’s... nice to have breakfast ready.” Bard tries a reassuring smile and wonders when he’s finally going to learn not to put his foot in his mouth. Although it’s true that he’s feeling way out of his depth here, so maybe he’s allowed a bit of awkwardness. He hasn’t had a guest stay the night since… well, ever, actually. At least since Elaine passed.

Bofur, however, either doesn’t pick up on his poor social skills or elects to ignore them, because he smiles widely again and returns to his stirring.

“Well, this is just about done!” he declares. “Hand me some plates? Couldn’t find them earlier.”

“Huh? Oh, yes.” Bard hurries to do that. “You seem happy,” he comments, trying to fill the silence. Not that Bofur doesn’t do a good job of it, Bard is fully aware he’s the only source of awkwardness in the conversation. He can’t help but wonder where all the easy feeling of companionship from the night before has gone to. Things are harder in the light, he supposes. 

“Oh? Well, we didn’t go up in flames and die a horrible death last night. I consider that a good omen!” laughs Bofur while he sorts the heavenly smelling breakfast onto five plates. 

Bard decides to keep to himself that their usual breakfast consists of dry toast with a bit of jam and some fruit if they’re lucky. They usually reserve the meat, if they can get it, for a special occasion. Come to think of it, Bard is not even sure they _had_ any meat in the first place. Where on Earth did Bofur…?

“So. You think your family is alright?” he asks without thinking, just so he can cover up the fact that he’s been wondering if he’s about to eat stolen goods. Bofur, still sorting out the food, falters for a second and Bard silently curses himself. Before Bofur can say anything, he groans and lets his head fall on his hands. “Shit, I’m sorry. I have no idea what to say,” he admits, deciding to be honest. “I’m just… I’m not used to.. this.”

Bofur, bless his hat, doesn’t ask him to elaborate. Instead, he simply chuckles and pats his arm.

“‘S all right. Yer doing a lot better than half the folks I know. You should see Thorin’s attempts at small talk, it’s awful. ‘S a weird morning, is all.” He clears his throat and turns his back on him again. “Go wake the kids, would ye? While this is nice and hot”, and he goes back to humming a happy tune, the very picture of levity. 

But he’s not really happy, is he? Wasn’t he just yesterday telling Bard how much he loves his cousin and brother? How fond he is of all his friends? How terribly worried he was about them all, even if he didn’t say it with words? How can he be happy when there’s no news, when they heard and felt the dragon’s anger clear as day? Bard suddenly feels very stupid and very heartless. And he was worrying about meat, of all things.

He bites his lip and reaches out to lay a tentative hand on one of Bofur’s shoulders and squeeze. He feels the dwarf tense for a second and he holds his breath, but then the next second there’s a rough, warm and surprisingly big hand clutching at his with desperate strength. 

They stay like this for a long while. Bofur doesn’t turn around and Bard doesn’t say a word, not even when he can feel silent, dry sobs wrecking through the dwarf’s body and he feels his eyes starting to burn in sympathy. Not even when the punishing grip starts to hurt his hand. They stay like this, holding onto each other like a lifeline.

And then the dragon comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously Kili wasn't injured in this, so Bofur is the only one who stays. And Bilbo spends all night looking for the Arkenstone, so the devastation of Laketown is delayed for about... twelve hours? Yeah, that sounds legit.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bofur was injured in the botfa because plot. Everyone else lives because I say so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the pining chapter because there had to be one.

Bofur wakes up to a cool hand on his forehead. It feels like heaven and he feels like shit overall, so he may or may not moan a little bit at the feeling. Which, in retrospect, may have been a mistake, because it causes the hand to retreat and that’s just unacceptable.

“Nooo…” he croaks pathetically. His mouth feels like a dry rag in the sun. A dry rag full of sand. And dust. And his voice sounds like pure shit, to be honest, but it does the trick, because the hand is back. He sighs contentedly.

“It seems your fever is down” says a smooth, raspy voice, and Bofur’s eyes fly open because it can’t be true. But it is, and fate either hates or loves him, because Bard is sitting by his cot and he just watched him moan and beg like an idiot _but_ he’s also resting a cool, callous, wonderful hand on his forehead and just. Here. With him. Playing nurse. While his whole left leg and hip are on fire.

“Mahal help me” he mutters.

“What was that?” asks Bard, leaning down and oh no no no, that is worse because now Bofur can smell him and he smells like the dirt and soot he’s covered in but also like sweat, _his sweat_ , and now he can see the lines in the corner of his eyes and count all the hairs of his moustache, and _see_ the sweat glistening in his upper lip and it seems the orcs didn’t manage to kill him but this surely will. 

“Um” he answers very intelligently. “I, uhh… what?”

“Oh. Your cousin was here until a minute ago” says Bard, like he asked a perfectly coherent question. “He just went to look for your brother. At least that’s what I gathered.” He takes his hand away and this time Bofur manages not to whimper like a newborn kitten. He’s not sure he manages to hide the disappointment in his eyes, though, because Bard seems to be hiding a smile, just the tiniest upward curve to the left side of his mouth. His perfectly kissable mouth. With his soft looking lips. That he would love to kiss. Fuck. 

“Right” he says, just to say something. _Don’t think about how he looked sleeping on those pillows, mouth half open and beautiful hair everywhere, cuddling his adorable kids like some kind of hot, perfect… man… dad…* Definitely don’t think of how he was watching you sleep just a second ago and you were probably drooling or snoring like a swarm of angry wasps._ “They are… are they all fine?”. 

He’s not overly worried, Bombur was with him when the mace hit his leg and the battle was practically won at that point. Just his luck he would get the stupid orc who didn’t know when to quit. Still. One can never stop worrying about his baby brother. 

“Your brother and cousin are, at least. I helped Bombur carry you here. I found you just as you were going down.” His voice breaks a little and he clears his throat. Probably thirsty. “Your healer is also alive. He gave you some concoction to put you to sleep while he worked on you. But you should be fine. He said it only _looks_ bad.”

“Well, as long as it only _looks_ like it”, jokes Bofur, and he’s rewarded by another half smile, and this time it’s not a hidden one. Bofur sort of hates that he feels a surge of pride over that. “So Bombur has been here?”

“Oh yes, they’ve been taking turns watching over you. You have a zealous family”. Another smile. Must be Durin’s day. “I’m sorry that you had to wake up to me”.

“I’m not” answers Bofur without missing a beat, and Bard looks at him with a raised eyebrow. He looks surprised. Bofur clears his throat and they stay silent for a few awkward seconds until Bard thankfully changes the topic. 

“Anyway, Tilda wouldn’t forgive me if I let you die” he says. “She’s fervently hoping for an encore of storytelling night. And Bain and Sigrid are too, even if they are too proud to say it.”

The kids! How can Bofur have forgotten about the kids? Oh, Bard must think he’s such an ass. 

“How are your bardlings? Are they all alright?” he asks, because he _cares_ about those kids, even if he has known them for literal days. Sometimes he thinks staying behind that day was the best thing that could have happened to him, even if it hurt, even if they barely managed to escape Laketown with their lives. He couldn’t even be properly angry with Bombur and the rest when he saw them again. 

“My…?” Now Bard’s smile reaches the corner of his eyes and Mahal, that is beautiful. He even chuckles a bit before he sobers up again, but there’s a new softness in his gaze. “They are, thank the Valar. As much as they can be without a home. But they are alive. And now that they tell me that your king has come to his senses, they may have a future after all” he adds, with a bit of a sour tone.

Bofur sighs and closes his eyes. Thorin. He remembers the ice-cold panic in the ramparts, when he was so sure his friend was going to end up smashed to pieces on the rocks. He remembers the claustrophobic anxiety the days before, searching without rest, with the tall shadow looming over them, knowing they were _trapped_ in there, at the mercy of a gold-sick ruler, who was becoming more and more volatile, more and more paranoid.

But he also remembers a strong leader. A brave warrior. A king that was willing to put himself in danger for all of them, to get his people a home. A dwarf he followed across all of Middle Earth on an impossible quest because when Thorin Oakenshield believes in something, you can’t help but follow. 

“He wasn’t like that” he says softly. “He is not like that. I need you to understand that, Bard. He was _sick_.”

“I know he was” mutters Bard noncommittally, looking anywhere but him.

“No, you don’t understand.” Bofur tries sitting up and he can’t help but grimace from the pain. The good thing is now Bard looks at him with a worried expression, so he can continue. “It’s a real thing, you know? The dragon sickness. It doesn’t… it’s not a fancy metaphor for ‘greed’.” Bard still doesn’t look convinced, but he’s at least listening, so he insists. “I _know_ him, Bard. And the dwarf you spoke to? It wasn’t him. If you don’t believe me, just trust that I would not have left my home and walked my boots off and battled orcs and giant spiders and _damned orcs_ again for a half-crazed asshole. He’s _good_.”

Bard hesitates, but he finally nods.

“Alright. If he’s capable of inspiring someone like you to defend him so ardently, then he mustn’t be so bad.”

Bofur relaxes on the cot again and tries to ignore the butterflies swarming in his stomach. _Someone like you_. What does he even mean? Someone so goofy? So lazy? Or maybe, juuust maybe…? Maybe it was a compliment? A tiny, teeny compliment? 

“Anyways” he says with a bit of forced cheer. “Thank you for taking care of this battered old goat. ‘M sorry you had t’be here instead of… doing something more important.”

“I’m not” answers Bard softly, and when Bofur looks at him his gaze is kind and open and sincere and Bofur feels a weird, dropping sensation in his gut. “And I didn’t _have to._ I just did.”

Bofur’s mouth is dry again, but he can’t swallow because he’s too busy staring into Bard’s eyes. His heart is most definitely trying to climb up his throat and he feels a sense of urgency, like he _has_ to do something _now_ , like the understanding look in Bard’s eyes is meant to encourage him to do… what? 

He licks his lips and Bard’s eyes track the movement for half a second and Bofur actually feels a bit faint. So he decides to go for it and he reaches out to take one of Bard’s hands. One of those wonderful, cool, calloused hands. He’s half expecting Bard to pull it from his grasp, but what he actually does is interlace their fingers together and beam at him and oh. _Oh._ Just like that, Bofur’s eyes are burning, but he smiles back so widely his cheeks hurt.

They stay like this, holding hands and grinning like idiots, not saying a word, until Bombur enters the tent with a booming laugh and they separate with burning cheeks. But Bofur’s palm keeps tingling long afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *He means dilf, but the term is sadly not yet invented in Middle Earth.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why the fuck the end notes for chapter 1 have migrated to chapter 2 and I have no idea how to fix it :( 
> 
> Edit: I fixed it... i think. 
> 
> So anyways, here you have chapter 3!!

Bofur wakes up to a mass of tangled, sweat-damp hair attempting to suffocate him. He spits out a few strands and makes a valiant effort of getting it out of his face with sleep clumsy hands. Only he can’t feel his right arm because there’s a weight lying on it. And what feels like a log slung over his hips. And… Bard is lying on him. That’s it. He has Bard’s hair in his mouth, his head pillowed on his shoulder and his very heavy, very  _ man-sized leg _ pinning him to the mattress. While they’re both  _ very _ naked.

“Oh Mahal,” he mutters to himself, half in awe, half incredulous, half  _ losing his entire mind _ .

“Mmmhm,” mumbles Bard then, just before groaning and burying his face in the crook of Bofur’s neck, trying at the same time to aggressively worm his way  _ into _ Bofur, if the way he’s cuddling him is any indication. Bofur could fucking melt. “S’early”

Tentatively (oh, so tentatively), Bofur strokes his hair, receiving what sounds like a satisfied sigh in return.

“You are not a morning person,” he notes. “S’fucking adorable.”

“Mm?”

“Shh. You can sleep a bit more. It’s just past dawn.”  _ Let me dream a bit more. Let me drown myself in your smell and the warmth of your skin before you wake up and leave and I’m forced to hope against all hope that you want to do this again even if I want more than a tumble in the dark. I want everything, but I’ll take what I can get. I’ll take anything, anything you want to give me. _

But there’s no luck, because Bard sighs again and then a sleep-crumpled face abandons the crook of his neck and stares at him through half-lidded eyes. Bard’s sleepy face is the cutest fucking thing Bofur has ever seen.

“No,” he declares then. “Wanna cuddle some more.” And he proceeds to burrow himself into (and around) Bofur again, who is left blinking at the half rotten wooden beams of the crappy inn’s ceiling, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he’s having a stroke and hallucinating everything. Maybe Bombur is already arranging his funeral. He hopes the eulogy is a real tear-jerker, at least. They should let Bilbo write it.

“Huh,” he manages to say at last. “So you’re a snuggler. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“Good?” comes the muffled voice, buried half in the pillows and half in Bofur’s hair. Oh Mahal, when was the last time he even washed his hair? Does it stink? It probably stinks and Bard is just enduring it because he thinks it would be rude to pull away.

“Oh yeah.” he coughs. “Fucking amazing. A dwarf could get used to this, yanno?” Try as he might, he can’t help but add that last bit, hoping that he infused it with enough jokey attitude that Bard doesn’t notice his crippling vulnerability shaking underneath like a leaf in the wind. Like a chest ripped open, showing how the heart beats.

“So do it.”

Bofur blinks.

“What was that?”

“Get used to it. ‘M not goin’ anywhere.”

They lay in silence for a minute. From one of the wooden beams, there’s a spider hanging from a thread. It’s so thin the insect seems to be floating in the air. Bofur wonders how someone can trust such a fragile-looking thing enough to hang from it. Maybe spiders don’t care about falling. Maybe they don’t even know about death. 

Then the spider climbs up to the beam and Bofur realizes he hasn’t been breathing.

He takes a shaky inhale against Bard’s temple and breathes there for a few seconds, dampening it, trying not to think about how ridiculous he’s being, how he’s definitely not young enough to be so far gone so fast. There, hidden in Bard’s skin and curls, because he feels safer there, braver, he mutters a word like a secret:

“Really?”

And this time there’s not a wall shielding the leaf from shaking or the heart from beating in the open air, so Bard notices, because he’s the most clever, most amazing man Bofur has ever met, and he  _ knows  _ when something is wrong. So he lifts up on his elbow and looks at him and Bofur  _ knows  _ he’s seeing everything, but he forces himself not to look away, not to run. 

Whatever he’s seeing makes Bard’s gaze soften up and his hand seeks Bofur’s face to cup it tenderly. Bofur hates himself, because that’s all it takes to make his eyes burn and his throat spasm.

“Did you think this was a one time tryst?” asks Bard, ever so softly.

Bofur laughs, but it comes out strained and pathetic.

“Well I hoped for more than one time, to be honest,” he tries to joke, to bring back the lightness he’s used to, but Bard gives him a little shake, careful but firm.

“Don’t. Don’t do that. You always close right up when you…”, he sighs and caresses Bofur’s cheek with his thumb. “You know, you are allowed to feel angry and sad and lost. You don’t need to be cheering everybody up all the time.”

Every word falls like a punch to the gut, and Bofur feels his chin starting to tremble and his eyes filling in earnest and he knows he’s not going to be able to hold it this time. Despite Bard’s words, his first instinct is to make a self-deprecating joke and leave the bed as soon as possible to fall apart in private, but Bard seems to sense his intention, because he puts his long, strong arms around him and holds him fast against his chest.

He doesn't say anything, he just kisses the top of his head again and again and Bofur is crying and sniffling but there in the warmth and darkness of Bard’s embrace he’s also grinning wider and truer than he has in a long, long time. 

________________________________________________________________

Later, when the tears have dried and the snot is wiped, they lay face to face with their legs tangled and their breaths mingling, smiling and kissing and smiling some more like absolute loons.

“You want me for longer than one night, then?” whispers Bofur, still not daring to hope, even if it was Bard who was wiping his disgusting crying face with the most loving expression just a couple of minutes ago.

Bard laughs, warm and soft.

“I want you for so many nights. And days. And everything in between. I think I’ve wanted you since you knocked at my door looking like a stray dog begging for scrapes.”

“Wow, that’s romantic. Very lovesick you sound.”

This time Bard’s laugh is louder and Bofur can’t help but smile until his cheeks hurt. Oh Mahal, he’s got it bad.

“Why? What was your impression of me?”, asks Bard then, eyes twinkling. 

Bofur thinks about a tall, handsome figure standing over them with dark, intense eyes and a nocked arrow, strong and fierce and  _ commanding  _ and he just fucking  _ moans  _ before he can catch himself. 

“That good, huh?” Bard’s half smile is too full of himself for Bofur’s comfort, but he’s currently blushing to the roots of his hair like a tween, so he can’t really begrudge him his fun.

“Shut up”, he grumbles, trying to hide under the covers, but Bard’s hand snatches them before he can. 

“Oh no you don’t. I plan to discover just how far that blush goes. And then you’re gonna tell me all about that handsome fellow that made such an impression on you.” 

“Oh, you’re horrible,” protests Bofur, but Bard is kissing and nipping at his throat and then down to his chest and Bofur finds it very hard to be upset about anything at all for a long, long while.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be smut :)

Bard wakes up to flowers. It would probably have been more romantic if the flowers hadn’t been literally thrust into his face and maybe if they didn’t appear to have been yanked from the ground, roots and all. Also, Bard is pretty sure dandelions are weeds. 

But behind the pitiful bouquet there is the most handsome, heart-stopping smile in Middle Earth and a pair of twinkling brown eyes and Bard is weak to both, so he smiles and drags himself out of his cocoon of blankets to plant a kiss on that smiling mouth.

He remembers morning breath is a thing about a second in, but by then Bofur is happily sucking on his tongue, so he resolves it isn’t important.

He’s about to try and bring Bofur down with him to  _ properly  _ start their day when the dwarf pulls away with a wet smack of lips and laughs when he tries to follow. He can’t help it, he’s stupid when he wakes up. Also, Bofur tends to have that effect on him no matter the circumstances.

“The flowers!” exclaims Bofur then, “We’ll squash them!”

“I’d much rather squash you,” mumbles Bard, and makes grabby hands at him.

“After all the trouble I went through to get them? I don’t think so!” Bard isn’t pleased with the negative, but Bofur is smiling, so it’s hard to not be happy. “There. Happy birthday, luv.”

Bard takes the offered flowers, letting his fingers twine with Bofur’s.

“Who told you?” he asks, feeling like a lovesick fool for thinking this sad bouquet of weeds is the best birthday present he has ever received. Then again, he  _ is  _ a lovesick fool. 

“Sigrid and Bain, just yesterday. I just wish they’d told me earlier, I had t’wake up before dawn to find these little buggers. But I remember Bilbo saying that flowers are the most romantic thing you can give someone to say you love them, so I had to…” He clears his throat and looks the other way. 

Bard can see the tip of his ear catching fire and wonders if one can die because their heart feels too big to fit in their chest anymore.

“You have never said you love me before,” he whispers, dying to touch but feeling too fragile to move, too tender. 

Bofur’s head whips around so fast one of his pigtails almost hits him on the face. 

“You didn’t know I love you? How the fuck didn’t you know?”

“Peace. I knew,” laughs Bard. “It’s just nice to hear, is all.”

“Oh, Bard.” Bofur cups his face with both hands and presses their foreheads together. “M’sorry. I love you so much. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey. Hey, it’s alright. You’ve been practically living here for half a year. My kids and you adore each other. You sleep on my bed and give me handmade presents and we go on dates at least twice every week. I  _ knew _ .”

“Still should’ve said it.” murmurs Bofur against his lips. “M’not gonna stop sayin’ it now. I love you, Bard. I love you so much.”

“And I love you.” Bard smiles and kisses him slowly, taking his time. “Why don’t you go and put these flowers in a glass of water or something?” he says when they part. “And then you can come back and make me forget my own name at least thrice before the kids wake up.”

Bofur gasps and his eyes turn a lovely shade of dark before he’s sprinting out of the door with the (already mostly withered) flowers clutched in one hand. Bard laughs and stretches luxuriously. Then he reaches for the bottle of oil they have on the bedside table and coats his fingers. 

When Bofur comes back, he’s naked, the covers are crumpled on the foot of the bed and he has worked two fingers inside himself. He looks up coyly and bites his lip, enjoying way too much the way Bofur stumbles while taking off his clothes because he’s incapable of taking his eyes off him. He loves the way Bofur wants him, the way he’s desperate for him like he has been wanting him for  _ years  _ and it’s their first time all over again.

It goes both ways, of course, and he feels his mouth dry up when Bofur’s body is bare before him, small and stout and hairy, curved thick cock already jutting out proudly from a nest of dark curls. 

Bofur’s body doesn’t only  _ look  _ strong, Bard often gets off to the fact that he can and does throw him around and manhandle him on a regular basis. One memorable occasion he fucked him up against the wall,  _ holding him up _ the whole time. Granted, it was a bit awkward given their difference in height, but Bard still got off spectacularly hard. 

He also loves that Bofur’s cock is bigger than his. He has never been particularly well endowed, on the contrary, and the first time they got intimate he was a bit insecure about getting naked. But Bofur had taken one look at his cock and proclaimed it the cutest little cock in all of Arda, and instead of feeling humiliated he had been harder than ever. And he absolutely  _ adored  _ the way Bofur could spear him open and fuck him deeper and wider than he ever thought possible. 

He whines, tired of waiting, and extends his free hand towards Bofur, who comes as fast as humanly possible and takes it between both of his. Then he takes his wrist up to his mouth and starts kissing and sucking and Bard chokes on a moan and writhes on the bed. Bofur  _ loves  _ paying attention to his wrists for some reason and it drives Bard wild.

“Bofur  _ please _ ” he pants. “Please come to bed.”

“Aye” Bofur’s voice already sounds hoarse and it makes Bard whine again, desperate for something, anything.

Then Bofur climbs into bed (literally, Bard loves to laugh at him in a normal situation. Right now he’s to horny to care) and he moves to straddle Bard’s stomach, immediately going for the neck. Bard’s back arches off the mattress and he does his best to muffle his moans in Bofur’s hat. He always forgets to take it off when he gets naked. Bard remedies that by throwing it clear across the room and getting to work in undoing the ridiculous pigtails while Bofur continues going to town on him. He’s going to have to wear scarves for a  _ month _ .

Bofur’s cock lays heavy and hot on his stomach and Bard can’t help but take it in hand, moaning at the feeling. 

“Fuck me,” he pants. “Please. We can take it slow later, just fuck me now.”

Bofur resurfaces, licking his lips, thrusting a little in the tunnel of his hand.

“Aye. Birthday boy’s day. How d’you want me?”

Bard thinks about it, jacking him off almost absentmindedly while he pictures all the different scenarios on his mind. 

“I want you to ruin me,” he says finally, almost without breath. “I want you to put me where you want me and fuck me so hard I can’t walk.”

Bofur keens and bucks hard, just before kissing him like a drowning man, sucking on his tongue like he’s sucking his cock. 

“Alright” he says, moving to unstraddle him “C’mere.”

And he fucking… hauls him up and walks on his knees until Bard’s shoulders are up against the wall and his ass is resting on his lap. On instinct, Bard’s ankles cross on the small of Bofur’s back so no part of him is touching the bed. His heart is already racing, and he’s pretty sure his pupils are now the size of dinner plates. 

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but a few seconds later he’s sinking on Bofur’s cock. Bard buries his hands in the dwarf’s hair and throws his head back so hard it hits the wall but he doesn’t give a single fuck. 

“There, baby. You take me so good,” praises Bofur, grabbing his ass  _ hard  _ while he lowers him down like he weighs nothing. He mouths at any part of Bard’s torso he can reach, pulling at his body hair with his lips and all the while he’s  _ splitting him up _ . Bard is already starting to sob. 

Finally he’s sitting again in Bofur’s hard lap, every inch of him inside,  _ burning.  _ Bofur grins up at him and thumbs a tear off his cheek. 

“There, luv. I’m inside of you. How’s it?”

“Perfect. You’re perfect.”

“You’re the perfect one. Look at you, all handsome and tall, all a mess. Beautiful.” Bard would disagree, but it’s hard with Bofur looking at him with such transparent adoration. He strokes Bofur’s hair, his face, his moustache, and hopes what he feels is also clear on his gaze, his hands. 

“Move” he whispers. “Take me”

Bofur plants a last tiny kiss on his sternum and grabs his ass roughly again, making him whine. Then he braces himself and he starts to thrust up, up, up, keeping him in the air by sheer muscle force. He fucks him hard but not fast, grinding down on every thrust, searching for that special spot that makes him shiver and tense up. 

Bard scrabbles at his hair, making fistfuls on it, trying to find purchase, but he’s at Bofur’s mercy, being moved like a rag doll, filled again and again, and he  _ loves  _ it. 

“Bofur,” he pants “Bofur, Bofur...”

“My Bard. I love you. I love you.” 

Bofur picks up the pace, this time moving him up and down in time with his thrusts. Bard bites his lower lip not to fucking  _ scream.  _ His cock is red and stiff, bobbing in the air, already wet at the tip. Neither Bofur or Bard have their hands free to touch it, but it’s for the best. He would come in a second if he touched it right now and he doesn’t want to come. Not yet. 

He closes his eyes and tries to relax, to think about something soothing, like grass on the meadow or the ripples of the lake, but it feels  _ so _ good he can’t concentrate. He gives up and looks at Bofur’s muscles contracting rhythmically, the sweat starting to form on his shoulders and arms and chest. The obscene squelching sound every time he’s impaled again and again. His torso, covered in Bofur’s saliva. The oil dripping down his hole and Bofur’s cock. Bard wonders how the fuck did he get so lucky.

Bofur’s stamina is incredible and he could probably continue holding him up for hours, but he’s only a dwarf, and eventually he looks up, face scrunched up.

“I’m gonna come, luv. Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” moans Bard “Fill me up.”

Bofur keens and does just that, hips slamming into his ass again and again while he spills and spills and spills. Apparently it’s a dwarf thing, but every time he comes he absolutely  _ drenches  _ the sheets. It’s obscene.

The seed is already starting to leak by the time he pulls out after grinding through the aftershocks for a while. Then it’s a torrent pouring out of Bard’s ass and he bites his lip hard. He shouldn’t find that so hot, but he does. 

Bofur lowers him down to the bed and Bard doesn’t even mind the wetness. He would  _ roll  _ in Bofur’s seed if he could. 

“So” says Bofur, looking down at him and licking his lips. “How does the birthday boy want to come?”

“Down your throat” answers Bard without missing a beat, and he’s rewarded by the most handsome smile in all of Middle Earth before his cock is engulfed in wet heat and sucked  _ hard _ . He throws an arm over his eyes and chokes on his own moan. Happy birthday to him indeed. 


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More porn. Yay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bard starts sucking Bofur off when he's asleep, so a bit of somnophilia, I guess? It's all super consensual, though.

Bofur wakes up to warm, wet heat around his cock and faint slurping sounds mixed with muffled moans. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what’s happening, but it’s still _shocking._

“Oh Durin’s axe and stars,” he moans at the ceiling. 

Bard pulls off with a truly obscene sound in a mess of saliva and precum and has the audacity to _laugh_ at him while he starts to jack him off leisurely. 

“Finally,” he says. “I’ve been working this thing for _ages_ now.”

“Oh, come off it, you love working that thing.” In fact, the only person Bofur knows whose appetite for cock rivals Bard’s is himself.

“I do,” admits Bard with a shit-eating grin and without further ado he swallows him down again and Bofur _squeals_ like a goddamn week-old kitten. Bard snorts but keeps sucking dutifully. 

Bofur is lucky Bard’s cock is so small and cute, the perfect mouthful, so he never chokes on it. That is never, however, Bard’s problem. The man just wasn’t born with a fucking gag reflex, so he’s able to go down on him like a snake swallowing a deer carcass. Which is a very weird, very gross comparison to make in the middle of sex, Bofur realizes, but then Bard sucks him like he means it and he loses all sight of snakes, dead deer or even his own name. He’s too busy screaming his lungs out and grabbing fistfuls of Bard’s wonderful silky hair while he comes down his throat.

He just lays here like a dead fish after that while Bard licks him clean and climbs up his body to give him a _kiss on the nose_. 

“Hey,” he says, voice rough and intimate. 

“Hey,” answers Bofur softly. And then, because it’s true: “You’re beautiful.”

Bard smiles and it’s like the sun has come up, every single time. 

“ _You’re_ beautiful.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Fuck off.”

Bard falls to the side laughing and slings an arm over Bofur’s middle.

“I love watching you laugh,” confesses Bofur, nuzzling him.

“You’re good for my health. I’ve laughed more since I know you than most of the other years put together.”

“Good,” says Bofur, even if his heart breaks for all those grim-faced years. Bard should never be sad. Ever. And Bofur will make sure he spends the rest of his days putting a smile on this perfect man’s face as often as possible.

They cuddle for a while, caressing and kissing each other until Bofur whispers:

“Hey.”

“Mm?”

“Wanna fuck me real slow? Just how you like it?”

Bard smiles his devastatingly handsome half smile and Bofur just _has_ to kiss it. Those lips are still the most tempting ones in the history of mouths everywhere, of that he’s absolutely certain.

“Oh, come off it,” says Bard once they separate. “You like it just as much.”

Bofur smiles a toothy smile and doesn’t say anything.

A few minutes later, his eyes are half-closed in bliss and his entire vocabulary consists of sighs and languid moans. He has the feeling Bard is silently laughing at him, but he doesn’t care. He’s too busy melting into the mattress. 

They are so used to fucking in this position (especially in the mornings, soft and pliant and sleepy) that it’s as easy as breathing to find their rhythm. Bofur is lying on his back, legs thrown over Bard’s, who is kind of spooning him from the side while he fucks him slowly, tenderly. Bofur especially loves this position because it puts their faces relatively close and he can receive (and give) lots of little kisses and be cuddled at the same time. 

It’s funny, when he’s the one doing the fucking, they tend to go a little wild and it’s glorious and explosive, but when it’s the other way around, they both like to take their time and chase a slow climax that makes them boneless and dopey. They sometimes mix it up, sure, and Bofur has had his share of a hard, satisfying fuck, but they always seem to go back to this. Bofur loves it, but then again, he loves every way he can have Bard. 

He opens his eyes and looks at him, because he can only go so long without seeing that handsome face. Immediately, he’s grinning like a fool. 

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Bard kisses his cheek and snuggles closer, keeping the unhurried pace of his hips. Bofur can’t help but lick his upper lip clean of sweat because he loves Bard’s taste and because he remembers dying to do that once, lying on a cot with his leg on fire, and now he _can_. Bard’s eyes sparkle, dark and beautiful. “Remember the first time we did this?”

“The first time you fucked me?” He does. He remembers everything that has to do with Bard.

“The first time we ended up in bed together.”

“Ah.” Bofur’s smile is half embarrassed, half fond. “I do. I was a fucking mess the next day.”

“Mmm. You were.” Bard twirls a finger around his moustache and tugs playfully. “I can’t believe you thought I was going to get up and not look back. I was so _gone_ for you, even then.”

It’s been almost four years since then and Bofur _still_ feels a thrill of pleasure and incredulity every time Bard says something like that.

“Well, in my defense…” he starts, but Bard lays a finger on his lips and shushes him.

“Stop. I don’t want to hear any absurd arguments about how you think _I’m_ out of your league.”

Bofur tries to say “But you’re out of my league”, but it comes out more like “ _Bm yr mm mmt mm mgue_ ”, so he sucks Bard’s finger into his mouth as vengeance. Granted, it doesn’t seem to work much in the vengeance department, but it _works,_ because Bard’s eyes darken even more and his hips buck harder a couple of times before returning to their easy rhythm. 

“I _asked_ _you_ to remember that night.” And ooh, that’s Bard’s commanding voice, Bofur is _weak_ to that voice. “Not the day after. That night. We were drinking together, in _public,_ and all I could think about was your mouth and your hands and the sound of your laughter.” Bard seems to be getting lost in the memory, because he starts to fuck him harder, faster. “You were talking and I couldn’t hear a single word because I kept thinking of undressing you and kissing every inch of your skin.” 

Bard’s eyes are intense and piercing, and Bofur is still sucking on his finger, thank Mahal, because he doesn’t want to think about the embarrassing sounds he would be making otherwise. Most of all, he doesn’t want Bard to _stop_ . He feels pinned in place, unable to look away, _captive_. 

“And then you _said_ .” Bard is fucking him properly now, with hard slaps of skin on skin, and suddenly he moves so he’s on top of him, one of Bofur’s legs on his shouder as he folds him practically in half and Bofur has never been more glad of his daily dedication to his stretching routine. He just has to brace, wide eyed and _delighted_ while Bard pounds him. “You said you hadn’t been touched in _years_ . You said _‘there’s only so much a dwarf can take’._ And then you threw me a _look._ ”

There’s so much Bofur could say right now. That it was a stupid, drunk gamble. That he was completely prepared to brush it off as a joke. That never in a million years could he have predicted what happened next. But that would mean interrupting Bard and he would sooner eat his entire hat than do that. So Bard goes on, panting and undone and terribly beautiful.

“So. After I almost fell off my chair in my haste to find the innkeeper and came back with a key and almost dragged you up the stairs and _swallowed_ your cock the second the door was closed, after I kissed you everywhere and worshipped you all night and _cried_ when you fucked me, after I _begged_ for you kisses and went to sleep wrapped around you, you still thought you were… what? Just convenient?” He yanks his finger out of Bofur’s mouth and takes his face in both his hands. Bofur cannot _breathe_ , cannot _think_ , and he has the sneaking suspicion he might actually die and _what a way to go_ . “You are everything,” pants Bard, and he kisses him hard, pushing his tongue into his mouth, _drinking_ him and Bofur just fucking comes untouched and it feels like the orgasm has been _ripped_ out of him and it _aches_ and its too much, too much, but he never wants it to stop.

He comes back to himself flat on his back, being tenderly wiped down with a wet rag, and he takes a shuddering breath.

“Wow,” he says. 

“Wow is right.” Bard tosses the rag somewhere and lies down next to him. “You alright?”

Bofur laughs and it’s disbelieving and maybe a bit hysterical, but Bard doesn’t look worried so it’s fine.

“M’peachy, luv,” he wheezes. “Oh Mahal. We have to reminisce more often.”

Bard snorts and soon they’re both cackling like idiots, lying side by side on the bed. When he finally manages to stop, Bofur wipes out his tears and turns to Bard.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I want you to wear my braids.”

Bard pauses for a moment.

“Is that one of those dwarven customs I’m not aware of that means so much more than you’re letting me know? Like when you tattooed my family crest on your thigh?”

Bofur smiles. He still remembers how Bard's eyes lit up and filled with tears when he told him they were _family_ now, all five of them. He still loves to kiss and lick that tattoo whenever he has the chance. Bofur has yet to find a downside to it all.

“I want you to wear my braids and keep you forever,” he clarifies, ever so softly.

Bard’s mouth opens without a sound. Bofur scoots closer and presses their foreheads together and then Bard takes his forearm in his hand and _squeezes_. 

Bofur smiles and starts thinking about beads.


	6. Bonus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family feels and cheesiness all around!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright folks, this is it! I know this is not a very long fic but it's my longest yet and the one I've spent the most time and effort on and I'm super proud of it :) I love this pairing so much and their dynamic is so fun to write and I really hope it becomes more and more popular. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Also you can find me on tumblr (derspatz).

Bofur wakes up alone. He sighs. He sighs at the unforgiving cold bed. He sighs at the rock walls and the lack of windows. He sighs when he rolls out of bed and starts getting dressed. He sighs when someone knocks at the guest’s room door and he sighs at his cousin when he opens it. Bifur just rolls his eyes at his theatrics and leads the way to Thorin’s chambers.

An hour later, he’s surrounded by half of the original Company while they do their best to pull and prod at him and his hair while at the same time doing their own braids.

“I just think… ow, gentle, Dori! I want to have some hair left!”

“Oh, shut up,” grumbles Dori, but the tugs change into something a bit less merciless, so Bofur winks at him in the mirror. Dori just scoffs.

“I just think this is absurd,” he continues. “I  _ live  _ with him, for Durin’s sake! I sleep with him every night! Oh Nori, stop with the catcalling, you know what I mean!”

“Well, yes, but it was the night before the wedding,” pipes in Bilbo from his perch on Thorin’s lap. Why he needs to be here to fix the king’s hair is anyone’s guess, but Thorin is looking at him like he hung the moon and the stars and the besotted smile is a good look on him so Bofur decides to let it go. Those two took way too long to get their shit sorted out after all. “You’re not supposed to see each other before the wedding.”

“But whyyyy?” groans Bofur, earning himself a sharp pull of hair and a harsh “stay still!” for moving his head too suddenly. “I’m too used to cuddling him now, last night was  _ hell.  _ And cold and lonely and full of tears and…”

“Oh will you  _ shut up. _ ” Dwalin rolls his eyes from the corner of the room, where he’s busy putting intricate little plaits in Balin’s beard, who is in turn chuckling good-naturedly. “Yer alive, ain’t ye? Ye’ll see’im soon enough.”

“Not soon enough,” mumbles Bofur, but he drops it for now. It still sucks, though. He bets that absurd custom was invented by a total asshole who only cared about making people miserable and sleep-deprived and blue-balled. Probably an elf, then. He turns to Bilbo to ask him and oh nevermind, he’s sucking Thorin’s tongue. Cool. It’s not like they’re in a room full of people or anything. 

Bofur sighs for the umpteenth time and prepares to resume his whining, but just then the door bursts open and in comes Bombur with the biggest smile plastered on his face.

“My brother is getting married!” he announces loudly, like there’s someone in the entire mountain who still doesn’t know. Despite his rage against the nonsense of some wedding customs, Bofur can’t help but smile back.

“Hey Bom. Ye wanna repeat that? I don’t think they heard ye in Ered Luin.”

Bombur just laughs as he approaches, and Dori is ready to hand him the comb with a smile.

“Here. Best if you finish that,” he says, and Bofur doesn’t miss the way their hands brush when passing the comb over or the way their gazes linger on each other for just one second too long. He hides a pleased smile and stores that information away for later for blackmail purposes and endless teasing. He has older brother duty to attend to, after all. 

Then Bombur’s familiar hands are in his hair, combing and braiding dexterously, and Bofur feels himself let go of a tension he hadn’t noticed was carrying. He relaxes a bit more and lets himself get lost in the comforting murmur of his friend’s voices around him, the warm touch of his brother’s hands . By the time Bombur has finished braiding the intricate traditional wedding hairstyle, he feels almost boneless. He takes one of Bombur’s hands and squeezes.

“Thanks, Bom,” he says sincerely, and Bombur, the big softie, just sniffles and pats his hand, all teary-eyed. 

They have decided to celebrate the wedding just outside the gates of Erebor. The early autumn weather is still warm enough for an outside wedding and Bofur supposes it’s a bit symbolic to do it there, in the place where their two people were enemies once and then allies and all that jazz. He doesn’t much care, to be honest. He just wants to marry the love of his life in the presence of all his friends and family and go back to their little house in Dale with its tiny kitchen and flowers on every window and kids who call him  _ ada  _ and let him spoil them to his heart’s content.

Speaking of the kids, they’re the first thing he sees when he and Bombur arrive, and he instantly feels a rush of pride and love because they are all three lined up at the front, all dressed up, and they have dwarven braids and beads on their hair and they’re  _ beaming  _ at him and they’re  _ so beautiful _ . 

Bombur pats his arm and hands him a handkerchief, bless his soul, and Bofur does his best to try and compose himself. He does squeeze all his kids’ hands when he walks in front of them, ceremony be damned. All of them but Sigrid’s left hand, too busy holding onto a beautiful dwarrowdam’s, and Bofur raises his eyebrows at that and mouths “damn”. Sigrid just sticks her tongue out to him and he laughs, feeling like a balloon filled with too much hot air. Good thing Bombur is holding his arm, he might float otherwise and then poor Bard would be left without a groom. 

Bard. Once he sees him, waiting for him with Thorin in front of the small gathering of people, it’s impossible to look away. They have only been separated for one night, but he can’t even remember the last night they didn’t spend together and he’s just so  _ gorgeous _ . He’s wearing his courting braids and there’s  _ flowers  _ on them and he’s also wearing some kind of lovely embroidered dark tunic and he looks… perfect.

“Hey,” he says, once they’re side by side and he climbs on the small wooden stool someone has prepared for them to be eye to eye. It would be humiliating if not for the fact that Thorin is standing on his own, taller stool and he looks more regal and dignified than ever.

“Hey,” answers Bard with the softest expression. “You look beautiful.”

“What? No,  _ you  _ look beautiful.”

“We can both be beautiful,” laughs Bard, kissing the back of his hand. Naturally, Bofur can’t do anything but lean in and kiss that smiling mouth again and again and again… at least until Thorin pushes his damn fingers between their mouths to separate them.

“Alright, alright,  _ enough _ ,” he says, and he has the gall to sound irritated. He’s one to talk! “Save that for after the ceremony. Some of us have busy lives.” As if he isn’t gonna be drinking and partying with the rest of them after the wedding. Bofur snorts, but he decides to behave.

“Alright, shut up!” bellows the king then, and everyone stops chatting and laughing instantly. Bofur is always jealous when that happens. He can barely control the mayhem in his own house and there are only five of them (and only one is a proper kid anymore). “You are all here to bear witness of the love between these two people and their promise to entwine their lives and be One.”

“Oh, bit too late for that,” murmurs Bofur, just for Bard’s ears, and he winks salaciously. Bard tries to muffle a snort and pinches him on the side in retaliation. Bofur smiles so wide it hurts as he listens to Thorin’s grave voice and looks into Bard’s beautiful,  _ beautiful  _ bright eyes, surrounded by all the people he cares about in this world and if this is all a dream, he hopes to never, ever wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes to finish:
> 
> \- Sigrid's dwarrowdam is caled Hrun and she's distantly related to Dáin. She's also super badass and beautiful and you bet your ass she's going to treat Sigrid RIGHT. Bard and Bofur knew she was seeing someone but not who, they officially meet after the wedding and they absolutely adore her.
> 
> \- Bilbo and Thorin took so long to get their shit together because they're idiots and Bilbo left for the Shire after the botfa and they spent years agressively pining and sending each other very blatant love letters without either of them noticing they were love letters until Fili and Kili got tired of their shit and went to the Shire to kidnap Bilbo. They took Dwalin with them in case brute force was needed. They finally admited they were mad for each other, and they are living in Erebor until Fili is ready to be crowned, then they'll go live in the Shire and plant potatoes together like the pair of adorable husbands they are. 
> 
> \- Bifur did all the bardlings' braids for the wedding and also Bard's because he absolutely adores them and the Ur guys have a tendency to adopt people into their family. 
> 
> \- The Bombur/Dori thing came out of nowhere and I'm as surprised as you are, but they have a massive crush on each other and are super cute on a daily basis. Bofur and Nori love teasing them mercilessly about it.


End file.
